In these moments, and with this spectacle before him, and contemplating these immeasurable consequences consciously for the last time that could allow him a retreat,—­impressed also by the solemnity and deep tranquillity of the silent dawn, whilst the exhaustion of his night wanderings predisposed him to nervous irritation,—­Caesar, we may be sure, was profoundly agitated.  The whole elements of the scene were almost scenically disposed; the law of antagonism having perhaps never been employed with so much effect:  the little quiet brook presenting a direct antithesis to its grand political character; and the innocent dawn, with its pure untroubled repose, contrasting potently, to a man of any intellectual sensibility, with the long chaos of bloodshed, darkness, and anarchy, which was to take its rise from the apparently trifling acts of this one morning.  So prepared, we need not much wonder at what followed.  Caesar was yet lingering on the hither bank, when suddenly, at a point not far distant from himself, an apparition was descried in a sitting posture, and holding in its hand what seemed a flute.  This phantom was of unusual size, and of beauty more than human, so far as its lineaments could be traced in the early dawn.  What is singular, however, in the story, on any hypothesis which would explain it out of Caesar’s individual condition, is, that others saw it as well as he; both pastoral labourers (who were present, probably, in the character of guides) and some of the sentinels stationed at the passage of the river.  These men fancied even that a strain of music issued from this aerial flute.  And some, both of the shepherds and the Roman soldiers, who were bolder than the rest, advanced towards the figure.  Amongst this party, it happened that there were a few Roman trumpeters.  From one of these, the phantom, rising as they advanced nearer, suddenly caught a trumpet, and blowing through it a blast of superhuman strength, plunged into the Rubicon—­passed to the other bank—­and disappeared in the dusky twilight of the dawn.  Upon which Caesar exclaimed:—­“It is finished:  the die is cast:  let us follow whither the guiding portents from heaven, and the malice of our enemy alike summon us to go.”  So saying, he crossed the river with impetuosity; and in a sudden rapture of passionate and vindictive ambition, placed himself and his retinue upon the Italian soil; and as if by inspiration from Heaven, in one moment involved himself and his followers in treason, raised the standard of revolt, put his foot upon the neck of the invincible republic which had humbled all the kings of the earth, and founded an empire which was to last for a thousand and half a thousand years.  In what manner this spectral appearance was managed—­whether Caesar were its author, or its dupe, will remain unknown forever.  But undoubtedly this was the first time that the advanced guard of a victorious army was headed by an apparition; and we may conjecture that it will be the last.